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He'd bested her at cribbage on Monday. No surprise there; Cogg had warned her of the boy's prowess. Tuesday he'd reigned at rummy, while Wednesday saw her lose at her own specialty, whist. It was at this point she'd realized her resident handyman hadn't been dire enough in his impromptu report. Thursday's game of patience had, predictably, ended in a death match the boy had won by mere seconds.
Despite her losses, she would not let him beat her at Go Fish.
"Do you have any fives, Clive?"
With a reluctant frown, Clive slid two cards across the bed. Constance picked them up and laid down another match on the quilt swathing her lap. At this rate, her collection was going to keep her warmer than all her blankets.
"Any jacks?" Clive asked in return.
His foot tapped a distracted rhythm against the leg of his chair. Combined with his stoic pout, it was clear he considered himself too old for the game, but he had agreed to it, nonetheless. Perhaps he hoped to continue his winning streak. Heaven only knew the boy was proud as any Dove who’d strutted the earth. Still…unlike every previous round of cards, his efforts today were noticeably half-hearted. He hadn’t made a single cheeky remark since sitting down.
Had the long school day cut short his patience, or was there something on his mind?
It was difficult to tell. As deep as she was into her golden years, Constance liked to think she retained a glimmer of youth. Clive, now sixteen, challenged that notion. Such a baffling, brooding, tempestuous age. She loved him as dearly as she always had, of course. But sometimes understanding the boy was like navigating a labyrinth in the dark, one that was constantly growing and changing its layout as he matured. Communication could serve as a reliable map, but Clive had always been private. She never wanted him to feel like he was being interrogated.
"I'm afraid you must go fishing, my little card sharp,” Constance answered with an innocent smile.
The boy wasn’t the only one who could be cheeky. Knowing how to tease her son was one thing she’d never had any trouble with since his adoption. For better or worse, it was her way of casting light in the gloom when she wasn’t sure where to turn.
Right on cue, Clive’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I’m the card sharp?” he huffed, casting a frustrated glance at her field of matches.
”Go Fish is nothing but a game of chance,” Constance reassured, “If there was any skill involved you’d have won by now.”
Clive's brow creased as he considered her words. He seemed ready to issue a rebuttal, but all at once the fight went out of his expression. His mouth lifted into a strained smile as he drew a card.
"I can still win, you know. This might be just the card I need.”
Constance raised her own wrinkled brow at his sudden optimism. The boy was putting up a front.
Was he playing for her sake? She had wondered this throughout the week, wavering between gratitude and guilt. Having been consigned to bed by her doctor on account of another liver infection (paired like sour wine with her incessant rheumatism), Clive had taken to spending every free moment he could manage by her side, bringing her medication, reading to her, and telling her about his day whilst they played cards.
She appreciated his company more than she could express. After all these years, she was finally slowing down just as Clive was picking up speed, busy contending with a new school (closer to home, but, it seemed, twice the work), lessons with his private tutor, and an apprenticeship with the London Times. As much as she tried consoling herself with how he'd grown, a part of her longed to return to that first year they'd spent getting to know one another. Golden mornings in the gardens, rainy evenings in the library, holidays in the quiet places of her youth, meals she'd shared in his room back when that was the only place he felt comfortable—she treasured all of it.
If only they could enjoy those endless days again, instead of settling for mere snatches of time together, Constance would be happy even if all her aches and pains increased ten-fold.
She allowed the thought a moment to breathe and then quietly suffocated it, chiding herself for being so selfish. Clive wasn’t a child anymore. The last thing he needed was to be cooped up with a sickly old woman enamored with the past. Why, when she was sixteen, she'd traveled the world with her uncle nearly every holiday and always under the pretense of learning more about the distribution side of Dove Industries. She’d sought adventure instead, visiting ancient cities that felt far more alive than her parents' sterile vision for the future.
The Doves had long been industrialists, but her parents had taken the obsession with progress a bit further. They had been turn-of-the-century innovators who wanted to crown London with steam and place her upon a mechanical throne. Their magnum opus was a showcase that would allow spectators a glimpse into the London of the future. Ironically, the project was far too vast for the aging entrepreneurs to finish in their lifetimes. They'd entrusted it to her, the girl who liked old things; crumbling lighthouses and hidden catacombs and the jumbled architecture of centuries past. Utterly foolish of them. She'd been rebellious from the start. A stain on the spotless Dove name. After they’d passed, she’d shut down the generators and locked their ghastly project up for good.
Constance watched with trepidation as Clive lay down his first match.
One day the whole of Dove Industries, including that godforsaken spectacle, would pass to him. Whatever he decided to do with his inheritance, she wanted the choice to be his alone. But before that burden fell upon his shoulders, the boy deserved what she’d never been properly given: time to figure out what kind of man he wanted to be.
"Have I tired you out?"
Constance stirred from her reverie, sizing up Clive's sly expression. It appeared hastily devised to hide the concern in his voice.
“Goodness, no, Clive," she answered, brightly as she could, "When you get to be my age, you’ll find your mind often wanders without consent, that’s all.”
“Mine does already,” Clive admitted quietly.
The creases around his shadowed eyes, like pencil lines that had been smudged by a poor eraser, spoke louder than his words. She could guess their origin. Her health had long been a source of anxiety for Clive, one that had only increased with time. Now here she was adding to his fears by allowing herself to be distracted by her own.
Selfish old woman. Just another rotten beam in a rotting house. The boy should be out having fun; exploring London, visiting friends, pursuing his interests. She had to try and nudge him from the nest.
Constance's free hand slipped into the pocket of her dressing gown, her fingers brushing sturdy paper. Two tickets Cogg had bought only this morning. Maybe they were nothing more than a chance to ease her guilt, but she hoped, in the end, they would give Clive one evening to dream instead of worry.
“We’ve both been blessed with lucid inner worlds, haven’t we?” she murmured, “But it’s so easy to become lost. Sometimes, taking a break is the only way to reorient yourself.”
Clive shrugged. ”I suppose…”
Constance smiled at him in reassurance only for her lips to tighten into a wince as the dull ache between her shoulder blades flared, triggered by her own apprehension.
Quite the pair they made. He was as worried for her as she was for him and their minds, like Penrose’s impossible steps, turned endlessly round, trying to predict the future. Change it for the better. The Dove family curse.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed four. Constance gave the items in her pocket one last pat. Nearly time now. Best to keep the boy occupied so he wouldn’t suspect anything.
“Do you have any queens?”
Clive sighed and slid over another card. His eyes slid further, to the embroidery of her quilt, tracking the flowery designs Spring had carefully stitched across the squares.
Constance couldn’t help but wonder if he’d already caught wind of her secret plan and was annoyed at her interference. She’d only had his well-being in mind, but perhaps good intentions weren’t enough. The last thing she wanted was to take after her meddling parents…
Good Lord, should she have really kept this a surprise? The boy had always been adamant about being fully apprised of the situation at hand, but she’d thought her plan agreeable enough to constitute an exception. Now that it was nearly time for it to unfold, however, she couldn’t help but second-guess herself.
”Is there something on your mind, dear?”
The question slipped before she could stop it. She feared she’d made a frightful mistake with her scheming.
“I…” Clive swallowed, his down-turned features indecipherable.
Constance reached over to brush his hair from his lashes. He refused to look up at her, his head drooping until his fringe fell back into place.
"I'm going to quit my apprenticeship."
Firm resolve buttressed his words. Constance's hand wavered. She knew that stubborn tone. She’d first heard it during her weekly visits to the orphanage where Clive had resided for several months following the death of his parents. She’d realized immediately how much he hated it there, but he’d always put on a brave face for her, telling her again and again that he was capable of caring for himself.
In this context, however, his stubbornness was perplexing. Clive had been noticeably enthused when she'd first made arrangements for him to shadow a journalist at the Times. He'd had a keen interest in writing since the day she'd met him (among his scant belongings he’d taken with him from the orphanage had been a well-worn journal). She’d later discovered his uncanny ability to draw out information from his surroundings. No secret was safe from him. Constance was sure he knew more about Dove Manor than even she herself.
All of this, combined with the extraordinary events at Dreycott last year, had convinced her to contact an old friend at the Times in an attempt to find an outlet for Clive's inquisitive mind that wouldn't get him into trouble. Since Clive had begun, she'd only heard positive things from him. She couldn't fathom the reason for his sudden desire to quit.
"Are they not treating you well?" she asked.
Perhaps the other reporters hadn't taken kindly to someone so young who, she knew without hesitation, could do the job just as well as any of them. Constance smiled. The boy wasn't exactly the type to follow orders unquestioningly, either.
"It's not that," Clive said, clasping his hands and then unclasping them, "I just think my time would be better spent...here. I know I haven’t been home much and...and Shipley could use my help winterizing the green house and Cogg says the furnace has been acting up lately so I ought to help with repairs…”
Constance could tell there was more hiding beneath the nonchalance that masked his words but she would not pry it from him. It had always been her way to let him take the first step.
Besides, she had an inkling of Clive’s true reason for quitting. The boy had an uncompromising, eye-for-eye sense of justice. Now that she was so often bed-ridden, he meant to care for her as she had cared for him these last five years. He might never admit to it, knowing how she’d protest, but his actions this past week had provided her with more than enough evidence.
Constance’s heart welled with equal amounts pride and self-loathing. She needed Clive far more than he needed her, but the thought of him giving up on all his opportunities for her sake was intolerable.
Forcing a chuckle, she took Clive's hand in her own. “Now don’t you worry about Shipley and Cogg. Our boys our veritable Renaissance men equipped with Swiss Army knives. They’ll manage.”
Clive’s eyes seared her own. "Yes, but what if…what if something happens and I’m not there to help?” He turned away, his voice suddenly flat. “I’ve abandoned everyone.”
"Nonsense." Constance squeezed his hand. "We couldn’t be prouder of you and we—I—have loved hearing all about your escapades as a roving reporter."
Clive scowled. “I’m not a reporter. The apprenticeship should go to someone who actually needs it." His voice dropped to an acerbic mutter. "Not someone who's playing pretend."
Before Constance could respond, a quick knock alighted on the door.
"Come in.” She gave Clive’s hand one more squeeze, hoping it conveyed the assurance of continuing their conversation as soon as possible.
The door opened and Spring poked her head through, her lavender bouffant wobbling with excitement above her wide smile.
"Madame, she's arrived!"
"Excellent. We’ll be out in a moment."
Constance could feel Clive’s eyes boring into her peripheral vision.
"Who's arrived?" he asked warily. “Have you sent for another doctor?”
Spring merely giggled and shut the door.
"No, dear. We have a special visitor today." Constance couldn’t rid herself of the uncertainty she felt towards her plan, especially now that she knew what was weighing on Clive’s mind, but there was no turning back. “If you would help an old woman into her chair, she would very much appreciate it.”
”Are you sure you should?” Clive’s brow had knotted itself again, “Dr. Greene said—“
”Bother Dr. Greene, Clive. We’ve a very important visitor and we’re going to receive her properly.”
Still looking a bit uncertain, Clive fetched her wheel-chair and supported her while she eased herself into it. He spread a few blankets over her lap, which felt like the silent equivalent to having the last word. She didn’t try to take it from him.
Clive pushed Constance down the marble hallway and into the west drawing room, warm and buttery with late afternoon light.
A girl with dark, solemn eyes was sitting on the brocade settee, quietly observing her surroundings. She was dressed in muted attire, a white blouse and checkered skirt, that contrasted with her pale gold hair, braided into a single plait.
When she caught sight of Constance and Clive, the girl rose from her seat.
”Amelia?”
Constance craned her neck to sneak a glance at a true rarity: her son’s mouth hanging slightly ajar. A smile threatened the corner of her own mouth. She lowered her eyes just in time to see Amelia’s stern features soften as she approached.
"Hello, Madame Constance. H-hello, Clive."
Although she carried herself with a cold regality, combined with the dispassionate gaze of a well-trained soldier, Constance had long realized Amelia hid a gentle warmth, one that seemed especially to show itself around Clive. Of course, this went both ways. She’d never seen Clive so fervently pink as when the post arrived with another letter from his dear friend.
Constance reached out to take the girl’s hand. "Amelia, it's so lovely to see you again!”
"You too, Madame." Amelia’s accompanying smile was restrained but genuine.
"When did you—how did—I don't understand,” Clive’s eyes flitted suspiciously between Amelia and Constance, “Amelia, you never mentioned in your letters..."
“Clive, is that any way to greet your friend?” Constance chided.
“Oh—er…”
Clive finally stepped forward and offered Amelia his hand. Constance could now see that his blush had returned. This time it crept up into the roots of his unruly hair and down his collar.
“Hello, Amelia. It’s, erm, nice to see you.”
“It’s nice to see you, too.”
Amelia stiffly shook Clive’s hand. The two would have looked for all the world like formal acquaintances were it not for the combined flush of their faces, ever deepening as they exchanged brief glances.
“I—I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I have a tournament here in London tomorrow," Amelia explained, examining the oriental rug beneath her feet, “Granddad wrote Madame Constance and then she wrote me and asked me not to say anything so I could surprise you."
“You succeeded,” Clive said, shooting Constance a look over his shoulder, “Er, where is your tournament being held?”
Constance listened to the two make polite conversation. Perhaps if she was out of the way, they would be more inclined to familiarity, she thought with amusement, fiddling with the ruby on her finger. She remembered those days. She and the Countess of Bellonia were angels for her unwitting parents, but once alone they got into all kinds of scraps, mucking off into the woodlands, exploring abandoned churches and mine shafts, sharing their combined interests of architecture and exploration in the library.
Constance's smile faded. Her own parents had severed the friendship after the Countess's marriage had been arranged. Another potential future they’d extinguished in hopes of obtaining one they considered more ideal. How often had she’d worried these past five years that she'd try to shape Clive’s future to her own liking and discover she was no different from them? Even though she had brought Clive and his friend together instead of tearing them apart, she had still gone behind the boy’s back to arrange the visit. She feared she’d only succeeded in embarrassing him with her selfish intervention. Yet, letting him forgo opportunities and friends so he could keep her company felt equally selfish. She was backed into a corner.
Shifting uncomfortably against her chair’s stiff cushion, Constance’s hand slipped into her pocket once again. Perhaps it would be better to give the tickets to Clive in private and be open about her intentions.
"Amelia,” she spoke up, “If you'd care to freshen up, Spring can take you to your room. I'm sure you and Clive have a lot of catching up to do, but I need him for just a bit longer."
"Of course," Amelia said. She smiled shyly at Clive. "See you in a bit."
"S-see you.”
As soon as she’d gone, Clive whirled on Constance.
"Why didn't you tell me she was coming?"
Constance's hand tightened around the tickets. His tone wasn't outright accusatory, but he still seemed less pleased than she'd hoped.
"I apologize, dear. Like Amelia said, I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought the two of you could have a nice evening out."
"Out?" Clive repeated, suddenly dazed.
Constance pulled the tickets from her pocket and pressed them into the boy's hand.
"You've been working so hard lately. And you've taken such good care of me this past week, Clive. You deserve a break."
Clive looked down at the tickets, tracing the words Everyman Cinema printed across the top.
"But...I can't just leave..."
There was that stubbornness again. It made her heart ache. He really was becoming such a considerate gentleman.
"I'll be fine, Clive. Spring and Cogg will look after me for the night."
"But what if—“
Constance kissed Clive atop his bowed head.
"You can fret over me when you get back, Clive.” She spoke her next words as gently as she could, “I'm always fretting over you, too. But only because I want you to live your life to the fullest. To have time for yourself."
"You want me to stay at the Times, don't you?"
"I want you to do what you love," she replied, lifting his chin, "And only you can decide what that is. Whatever decision you make, I'll always be here for you." Constance sat back, "Now, you'd better get ready. Unless you plan on wearing that tonight?"
Clive frowned as he gazed down at his rumpled button-up and tie. His school blazer still lay discarded on the floor of Constance's room.
"Alright," he said reluctantly, "But our game isn't over."
"Of course, dear.”
Clive planted a kiss on her cheek before rushing out the door.
Constance shifted in her seat again, listening to his footsteps fade. Even though her hearing was beginning to fail her, she could still recognize his nimble tread, rushing down a hallway or up the stairs (always taken three at a time). It seemed the boy only ever slowed down was when he was guiding her wheelchair. What a bother the bulky thing could be. She missed the days when she could stroll with Clive down the beach or climb the ladder to the attic to guide him through the odd detritus of Doves past.
She was completely reliant on others now. The thought was compounded by Spring, returning to help her back into bed. After administering Constance’s pills, she sat down upon the chair formerly occupied by Clive to work on her embroidery.
"They've gone, then?" Constance asked.
"Yes, Madame," Spring said with a wistful smile, "Quite the pair of love-birds those two are."
Constance chuckled softly and shut her eyes. The pain in her back was already settling to a dull throb, though in exchange, her head felt like a tethered balloon, bobbing atop her shoulders. Better than the last medication, anyway, that had her seeing servants milling about the room who hadn’t worked in the manor for decades.
She’d never told Clive, but then, there were many things she hadn’t told him for the sake of his happiness.
That’s all she wanted, she realized. She’d held a great deal of titles in her lifetime: daughter, heir, artist, architect, magnate, philanthropist, the feathered saint to some and the devil in white to others, but the only title that mattered to her now was mother.
Did Clive truly think of her as one? She knew she would never replace the mother he’d lost. But what mattered more to her was loving him like a son regardless of blood. This meant watching him change. Letting him go, again and again, like she had just done in the drawing room. Helping strengthen his once frail wings until he was ready to take flight.
As she drifted off to sleep, Constance vowed not to lose herself in the memories she’d made with Clive. She would no longer ruminate on those days together, as much as she wanted to, uselessly wishing they’d return.
For once, she would put the past behind her and look to her son’s bright future.